


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by strixus



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Domestic Violence, Multi, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixus/pseuds/strixus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quatre marries a woman of his family's choice, and Trowa must watch from the sidelines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> You Can't Always Get What You Want - lyrics and music by M. Jagger/K. Richards

_I saw her today at the reception  
A glass of wine in her hand  
I knew she would meet her connection  
At her feet was her footloose man_

No, you can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
But if you try sometime you find  
You get what you need

  
Trowa Barton sat off to the side from the main group of people, a lone bubble of silence in a room full of sound, an untouched flute of champagne loosely clutched in hand, forgotten except for the weight of it in his fingers. He was watching the others, watching the movements of the crowds of family and friends: not his, truly, but Quatre’s family and the other pilots and those they had drawn close to them in the long years since the war’s bitter end. They were all there, excluding Heero of course, gone now for – had it been so long – three years into the outer colonies, beyond any of their reach or understanding now, but rightly so they were all there but their de facto leader. It was a happy time, celebration rife in the world now that at last the wounds of wars and terrors had been given time to heal, with Duo and Hilde just married less than a month before, still cute in there newness and closeness, and now this. Quatre’s family at last having found a suited match for him from among the surviving young women of the old families of the colonies, a young girl whom Quatre had professed if not love, at least deep emotional attachment to, he was married to her. And here now they all stood or sat or wandered, family and friends, at the reception after the ceremony, celebrating in their hearts and actions. And even Trowa, his heart aching dully in his chest as it was, celebrated such joy, for while the joy might have been his in his wants, in reality such a joy would never have been, and better then that it was for Quatre alone than not at all. And it was that he celebrated, if nothing else.

  
And then there was her: beautiful she was, definitely, and with a blood line running as blue as the sapphires that hung around her neck. In appearance, she was a contrast to everything of Quatre: dark eyes burning with an earthy fire, hair glossy like the feathers of a magpie, dark skin almost radiating the generations of sunlight that granted it that tone of river silt of fertile land. But in spirit she and Quatre were the same, a warrior spirit bound in by a heart able to encompass the universe. Maya Diavald – and now – Winner: tall and shapely, draped in silks and jewels, but even in sac cloth Quatre’s eyes would have shone as warmly to her as he held her close among the laughing throngs of family and friends. They could as well have been alone, for all the attention shown to those who flocked around them, well wishers all. Trowa winced inwardly, and with a stealth born of years of escaping places he did not want to be, rose and found the closest exit to the building, simply wanting to be outside and away from the joy of other people.

  
_We went down to the demonstration  
To get your fair share of abuse  
Singing, "We're gonna vent our frustration  
If we don't we're gonna blow a 50-amp fuse"_

You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
But if you try sometimes well you just might find  
You get what you need

Trowa walked through the rain, steps careful in avoiding puddles on the cement sidewalk, head bowed under the hood of a long, black raincoat. The pedestrian street was all but empty, only a hand full of daring business men and those people who had no where else to go moving about under the canopies and overhangs of closed shops braving the late afternoon, weekend rain. Trowa, unlike any of the others on the street, walked with a purpose through the steady rain, raincoat pulled tight around his tall form.

  
Several months had passed since Quatre and Maya’s wedding, and Trowa had not seen either of them since the reception, but nor had he seen any of the other pilots. At least in person, he had not seen them. He had seen Duo on the news once, a few weeks ago, talking about establishing better trade relations between the outer colonies and the inner. Duo, now satisfactorily wealthy due to his salvage company turned trade and mining fleet, had taken full advantage of his place as a public figure and economic force, always took the chance to make sure his opinion was heard. But none of the others had so much as called him, but of course, he had not called any of them.

  
The wind picked up, caring with it a chill and the faint sound of blues music from a club that had opened early. Trowa wondered how Quatre and Maya were doing, wondering if things were going well for them, if they were truly as happy as they had seemed at the wedding. Trowa honestly hopped they were, and knew it was best if he vanished from their new life. That was what he had been doing in almost everyone’s life since the war, he realized, vanishing slowly, letting himself fade away like the memories of the war. He was well taken care of, if not from Quatre’s family then from Relena in her new found positions of power. And while the large deposits made anonymously into his accounts by her were enough to live off of, he had made a means of living for himself outside of those deposits. And in that new life he was forcibly distancing himself from the lives of those who had been his friends and allies. It was better that way, he knew, better that he not torture himself with the happiness of others. He would make his own contentedness, if not happiness.

  
Reaching the end of the block, Trowa turned down a small side street, narrow and dark in a comfortable way. It was a decent little side street, with a hand full of small shops, none overly prosperous, and home of the single focus of Trowa’s life now: a purchase that Trowa had made out of love and realization of a dream. At the end of the block was the small, careful brick façade of the blues club, window shades drawn, neon sign out, and a small sign on the door listing the times of operation and the schedule of shows for the week. Trowa ducked under the dark green canopy of the club, and drew forth a handful of keys from the pocket of his coat, selecting one and turning it in the lock of the door. Its well cared for wood frame swung open easily, revealing the darkened interior of a place that when well lit would become the familiar after hours home of many. All this was his: stage, bar, restaurant, kitchen, and photograph-covered walls.

  
All of this was where he found his happiness now. Employees would be arriving shortly, the bartenders and servers who ran the place in its moment to moment functioning, and the evening’s act would begin setting up just as the club opened. But as owner he arrived first every evening, opening the door and the office in the backstage, as he had just done. And while most evenings he spent the night in the office, balancing the books and handling orders and approving the booking schedule, he sometimes still worked the bar for parts of the evening along with the normal barkeeps. All in all, it was a contented life.

_I went down to the Chelsea drugstore  
To get your prescription filled  
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy  
And man, did he look pretty ill  
We decided that we would have a soda  
My favorite flavor, cherry red  
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy  
Yeah, and he said one word to me, and that was "dead"  
I said to him_

You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
But if you try sometimes you just might find  
You get what you need

You get what you need--yeah, oh baby

The phone call had come nearly two months before, Duo’s voice on the other end as jovial and full of laughter as ever. It had shocked Trowa to hear the American’s voice on the phone, and shocked him even more to hear what he was planning. He had agreed quickly to the idea of the surprise anniversary party, and yes, he’d be happy to lease his club out for the night, and book the entertainment. Trowa quoted a much lower price than he usually would, and Duo swiftly offered him double that, assuring him it was coming out of Relena’s pocket, not his. Trowa had grinned at that, and agreed to a price half again what he had quoted first, plus stock and entertainment fees.

  
In the month following the call, he had called in favors, hunted down a selection of the best bands in town, and set up the menu for the evening with his head chef. Everything fell into place, as it should, no real hitches or snags, excepting those that Duo created. All in all, everything was well.

  
Then the day of the party came, and Trowa spent the day overseeing the decoration of his club, the final prep of the buffet, and the sound check for the two bands he and Duo had finally decided on. Two hours before Quatre and Maya were expected, Duo left to fetch them from the airport, and other guests began to arrive. Friends of the Winner family, economic leaders from the colonies, and of course, Relena and Wufei. Relena, her entourage of bodyguards and officials like a swarm of flies around a dead rat, hovered about the main room, out to pin down Trowa. Wufei surprised everyone by showing up with a young woman on his arm, tall and blond, whom he obviously had romantic notions towards. Trowa only raised a questioning look at Wufei, to which he responded with a shrug and a grin.

  
The surprise went off perfectly, Quatre and Maya both reduced to blubbering thanks and surprise as their friends led them into the bar. Duo had a grin as large as a cat having eaten an entire canary farm. Trowa spent most of the evening far away from Quatre, hiding behind his duties as owner of the club, watching from a distance. They seemed just as happy as they had that day at the reception, Maya smiling, just as beautiful and graceful, and Quatre on her arm, blue eyes always focused on her. Trowa sighed and busied himself with the buffet.  
"Trowa!" Duo had walked up behind him, silent as a cat. "This is going great! Thanks so much for letting us use your place, its fantastic." They spent some time talking, the chatter and banter of old friends, until Duo dragged him over to the bar with the command to loosen up. And he did, he supposed, perhaps too much. After a half a bottle of high-grade sake between them, Trowa and Duo took over bar tending for the back bar. After another third of the bottle, they began getting showy, flipping bottles and glasses between them like some deranged, alcoholic juggling team. Both were laughing.

  
An hour later, the party began to wind down, four hours after it had begun. Duo wandered, or more aptly, staggered away from the bar, leaving Trowa leaning on its smooth, black surface, slowly sobering. Quatre appeared in front of him suddenly, pale, delicate hands resting on the opposite side of the bar. Trowa saw those hands first, and didn’t need to look up to know whose they were.

  
"Trowa, I…" Trowa looked up, looked close into blue eyes he had spent hours lost in, that still sometimes found him in dreams. Quatre paused for a moment, and smiled weakly. "Trowa, thank you for doing this. Duo told us about all you’ve done for this, and Maya and I both wanted to thank you."

  
Maya’s voice suddenly called out for Quatre from across the steadily emptying room. Without pause Quatre turned and headed towards her, leaving Trowa unable to say anything in return.

  
_I saw her today at the reception  
In her glass was a bleeding man  
She was practiced at the art of deception  
Well I could tell by her bloodstained hands_

You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
But if you try sometimes you just might find  
You just might find  
You get what you need

Trowa was sitting in front of his television, having one last glass of wine for the evening before bed, when the knock on his door startled him to alertness. Four months had passed since the anniversary party at his club, four long and drudging months of everyday life for Trowa. Trowa had come to live his club, doing little beyond its management and bookkeeping. He had no personal life outside of it, no friends or even acquaintances outside of it, and very few within. He had heard only once from Duo in the months that had passed, beyond that, his world had been as it had been since the war: empty.

  
But the knock, again at the door, almost frantic sounding, but soft, was something different. Trowa set down the glass of red wine on the table beside the couch he had been lying on, and stood. He belted the silk dressing gown around him, noting again he had lost more weight and had to tie it tighter around his thin waist, and walked to the door across his apartment floor. The knock came again as he laid his hand on the bolt to unlock it, even sharper sounding if possible. What he opened the door to was beyond his imagining.  
Quatre was there, blue eyes turned up, looking at Trowa pleadingly, panic written in them. Or more aptly, one eye looked at him, its twin nearly swollen shut from bruising that continued down the left side of his face and across an obviously broken nose. Blood covered the sleeve of his coat, obviously put on over the torn and rumpled clothing under it in a hurry. His lower lip was split in at least one place, and a gash across his forehead barely hidden by his bangs spoke of a heavy blow with something other than a fist. Trowa’s shock was enough to render him speechless, at least for a moment.

  
"Quatre, what – what happened?" Trowa was lost, uncomprehending. Quatre all but fell forward into the open door, voice lost in sobs. Trowa snapped out of his shock, taking the shivering, sobbing Quatre by the shoulders and guiding him into the room, shutting and locking the door behind him. Slowly he walked Quatre around to the couch and sat him down, sitting down beside him.

  
Finally, Quatre spoke. "Trowa, I – I couldn’t take it any more. I just had to get away from it." He broke back down into sobs. "I didn’t know where else to come." Sobs wracked him, painful due to injuries hidden by his coat.

  
"Quatre, what happened? Who – who did this to you?" Trowa was angry, protective instincts that had yet to die off coming back into full swing.

  
"Trowa, oh Trowa, Maya… she’s not usually so bad. I –" his breath hitched, " I don’t know what I did wrong though…" His soft voice trailed off, looking up at Trowa, whose green eyes all but glowed with anger. Trowa forcibly softened his face, knowing that wasn’t what Quatre needed now. "Trowa, please…." Quatre trailed off again.

  
"She’s done this before? She’s hit you before?"

  
"Never so bad, not ever so bad before. She’s never done this-" he gestured a hand towards his face and nose, "-before. She’s always been careful of my face." Blue eyes turned back up again, looking for something in Trowa’s face. "She’s never done it when I didn’t deserve it, never hit me that is-"

  
"Quatre, hush. No one deserves this, not you especially." Trowa carefully put his arm around the huddled, bloody bundle. "You’re not going back to her, ever. I won’t let you go back to that. I just wish you’d said something to me or someone sooner." Pain crossed Quatre’s face, drawing Trowa back to its bruised surface. "Jesus, we have to do something about that. I’ll go call a doctor, my doctor, and get you something warm to drink. And get out of that coat and those clothes, and go take a shower and get cleaned up." Trowa got up, headed towards the kitchen.

  
Quatre reached up, and grabbed the hip of Trowa’s dressing gown, clutching at the dark green silk. Blue eyes turned up pleadingly, begging, tears staining bruised cheeks. Trowa bent back down, and wrapped his arms tightly around Quatre.

  
"Thank you, Trowa." Quatre whispered in his ear, and let go.

  
_You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
You can't always get what you want  
But if you try sometimes you just might find  
You just might find  
You get what you need_


End file.
